Oxygen
by LittleMissMorbid
Summary: ."The other nurses had given up on trying to bring a smile to his face a long time ago." Basically dismisses books 6 & 7, but mentions the war.


The machine beside him hummed as artificial breath filled his lungs. It would howl and scream at night, but his visitors would pay it no mind. They wouldn't talk to him anymore, nor did they even look at him. His glassy, empty stare made them uncomfortable.

Hermione and Ron used to visit him, but it became too painful, so he ordered them to stay away. He couldn't voice his thoughts, so he had to write everything on a wipeboard. With his mouth. It was humiliating. The sounds the marker made against the smooth surface, the sweet smell the ink made, he hated it all.

Ginny came by too, and told him she had loved him anyway, but Harry ignored her. Soon she stopped visiting too. He didn't need any reminders of how things should've been.

The seasons merged into one. Outside, where the others could walk amongst the sun and the grass and the birds—he no longer saw that. Long ago he had associated the hospice he had been placed in as a prison, and the bed he was confined to his cell. Sometimes, when he woke up, he thought that everything had been some sort of horrid nightmare, but when he couldn't move his legs, or his hands, he knew that it was real.

The nurses fed him through a tube, and Harry wondered if his tastebuds worked anymore.

During the war, he'd defeated Voldemort, but a well-timed curse had fractured his spine in several places, resulting in paralysis from below his chin. Harry did not know the details of why magic had failed to save him this time round, for he had been out for most of it, but he supposed it didn't really matter. And anyway, he was still stuck in this bed regardless, wasn't he?

He had fulfilled his prophecy and people suddenly felt the need to leave him alone, after the initial uproar of his demise had settled down. In the beginning, thousands of letters had come in, and he read them. There was even a short, cordial message from Narcissa Malfoy, who had voiced her own cool apology. Soon, though, he was tired of reading the sympathy notes and the apologies, so he refused any more contact from them.

Once, when he and Hermione were alone, he had looked at her with empty eyes and written on the board: _Turn off the oxygen. _

Her eyes had filled up with tears and she told him she couldn't do such a thing, and why did he want to die, she was doing her best to help find a cure for him.

Except she had been searching for a cure for over a year.

"Hello Harry," cooed a particularly annoying nurse, "Ready for your breakfast?"

She must have been new. The other nurses had given up on trying to bring a smile to his face a long time ago.

The liquids filled his stomach, making sickening noises as they passed through the tube. He hated feeding time. He'd started to refuse food when he realized starvation could kill him, and in response he got a tube jammed into his stomach. They were far too interested in preserving the lifeless shell of The-Boy-Who-Lived.

"That wasn't so bad, was it? I tell you, my son thinks you're just the best person on the planet. He has practically everything that concerns you on the bookshelf."

Harry did not care about the boy who idolized the false image of him. Because when it came down to it, he was essentially an infant now. An infant and a murderer.

The nurse practically skipped out the door, but stopped suddenly. "Oh, I almost forgot!" she giggled, "You have a visitor coming by at one."

Harry mentally sighed. He supposed it was either Hermione or Ron, back to tell him they had no luck yet but to keep hanging in there.

The days were the worst. The telly was constantly stuck on some trite sports channel, and Harry had long ago learned to block it out. The hours crawled by torturously, each second that passed feeling like an eternity.

His visitor arrived at precisely one, and it was neither Ron or Hermione.

Draco Malfoy stared at him, looking slightly intimidated by the medical equipment around him. He was still blonde, still tall, and still far too good looking for his own good. A wave of jealousy ripped through Harry. Why did _Malfoy _get to have his freedom? The git didn't even have a scratch on him.

"My mother has been nagging me to visit you," he explained, "May I take a seat?"

Something in Harry's face must have told him otherwise, because he chose to stand, uncomfortably in the middle of the room.

There was a silence, and the breathing machine startled Draco for a moment.

"Hermione used to update me on your progress. I hadn't gotten a letter in a while."

Harry glared at him. Since when did he call Hermione by her first name? And why did he care? The blonde gathered his courage, shut the door behind him, applying a both a _colloportus _spell and a silencing charm quickly before striding to meet Harry at his bedside.

Surprise was etched in those green eyes.

"I know what you want," he said, "And I'm willing to do it for you. Not as an enemy. But as a friend."

It was strange. Harry's cheeks were wet, and at first he'd wondered what had happened, but then he realized that he was _crying. _Not in sadness, but in relief. It was going to be over soon. He offered the blonde a weak smile and Draco smiled back uneasily.

He placed one pale hand on the boy's forehead, the other hand holding the wand gently by the bellowing machine.

_Thank you. _Harry said, with his eyes, warmth crinkling into the green edges.

"You're welcome."

Draco took his hand away, and uttered, _"Diffindo!" _The plastic tube attached to his throat separated with a large tear, and the machine began wailing in alarm.

Harry just closed his eyes and smiled.


End file.
